Little Things
by Zipper Whippersnapper
Summary: A collection of oneshots inspired by Akikazemoon's story "The New Kids in Town."
1. Chapter 1

_Here's just some drabbles inspired by __**Akikazemoon**__'s fanfic "The New Kids in Town." I highly suggest that you go and read that story before you start looking at these little one-shots. For those who already have, read on!_

_I don't own anything but my overactive imagination and a nasty bout of insomnia. Left 4 Dead belongs to Valve, Hunter, Boomer, Smoker, Taunter and Tank belong to __**Akikazemoon**__, Sam belongs to __**Commander of the Rabbids**__, Calli belongs to __**Sorrowsnow**__, and Jeffrey belongs to me._

Jeffrey – he's called that, Jeffrey, at least he thinks so – isn't one for company. All the companionship he'll ever need can be found easily in a dropped coin, a tin can, a scrap of metal by the side of the road. He keeps things for a while, shining them, protecting them, twisting and prodding their iridescent surfaces so the light is caught and they sparkle like they don't belong in this messed-up world he finds himself in. The shine comes from somewhere better, somewhere not crazed and dying and bleached with sickness like those dim white eyes he sees in the reflective outsides of his trinkets.

Whenever he sees those eyes, Jeffrey can't help but let go of the things and stash them away, hiding them so that when he comes back – _if_ he comes back – he'll know where they are. It's a comfort, like being inside when it rains and the streets run murky with blood and water. Something, at least, is safe, and it means he won't be alone. It's a lovely feeling, like salve on a cut.

He doesn't know the others that found him; they're not easy to figure out like tin cans or broken cell phones. Things don't reflect on skin that's warped and cut and grey with Infection, or covered by ragged things that used to be clothing, yet he sees his eyes in theirs just the same. He's not alone, he's safe, and it's strong enough a feeling to make him want to stay and learn more.

_This was a start – the next few stories will feature the other characters in greater length. _


	2. Chapter 2

_Here's just some drabbles inspired by __**Akikazemoon**__'s fanfic "The New Kids in Town." I highly suggest that you go and read that story before you start looking at these little one-shots. For those who already have, read on!_

_I don't own anything but my overactive imagination and a nasty bout of insomnia. Left 4 Dead belongs to Valve, Hunter, Boomer, Smoker, Taunter and Tank belong to __**Akikazemoon**__, Sam belongs to __**Commander of the Rabbids**__, Calli belongs to __**Sorrowsnow**__, and Jeffrey belongs to me._

Calli. The one with the most color is the one he finds himself most drawn to. Maybe it's the arguments she's always getting herself into that interest him; Jeffrey doesn't understand the fighting between her and the "Hunter." It seems pointless and violent, like the heat lightening that rolls around in the afternoon, even when there's no rain. Pointless, but dangerous and worthy of wariness. He wants to find out why they fight.

Since the hooded one is always out of reach, up high on the rooftops where he can't follow, or else down on the ground and too angry to risk conversation with, he goes to Calli instead. When he finds her, she's playing with those hissing-cans, the "spray-paint" that she uses to cover everything with squiggles and blotches of bright color. She calls it "art," Hunter calls it a mess, and Jeffrey just calls it color. He supposes that it's the colors they mainly fight over, but he's not sure.

Calli notices him; one light blue eye flicks in his direction and she stops marking the dirty surface of the wall. A smirk twists the side of her face that isn't already twisted by swelling and Infection. "Hey Jeffie. What's up?"

He checks – nothing's above them but the heavy grey of the sky that always seems to be around now. "I don't see anything…" He tilts his head at her laughter, pale white eyes confused and blank. "What?"

"Aw, nothing. Just forget it." The female Smoker picks up her beloved spray paint can with her tongue and transfers it to her clawed hands, muffling her words as she does so. "'Ut oo 'onna fay?"

"Erm…" The red and blue on the wall are mixing together in places, and they make a dull purplish color that sends waves of _wrong_ through Jeffrey's head. It's too much like what he can remember from when he was Jeffrey and healthy – too much like bruises. He looks away, forgets what he was going to ask, tries to remember what he's forgotten. "Uh…erm…you…?"

The spray-paint snarls and spatters against the wall again as Calli continues her latest project. "Yeah? C'mon kid, spit it out. We ain't got all day." She pauses and chuckles at her own little joke; they _do_ have all day. The Infected own the days and nights now, ruling them with claws, teeth, tongues and puke. She has all the time in the world.

When Jeffrey doesn't answer – he's too busy thinking about the joke and trying to recall why he started talking to the painter – she raises the ridge of blistered skin that used to be an eyebrow. "Jeff?"

He remembers. "Uh…ah! Why do you fight?"

The eyebrow goes down, as does the lopsided smile. "What do you mean? Fight who?"

The little Infected wrongs his hands, touches his hat – it's blue, like the paint, or some of it anyway – and shrugs. It all looks odd when put together. "You and Hunter. You're always-"

Calli cuts him off with a cough from her now-empty spray-paint can and a cough from her own lungs. She flicks her hand casually, warding off the rest of the remark. "We're just fooling around," she says, grimacing as she shakes the can and sprays one last cloud of red at the wall. "And letting off some steam until we can find some Survivors to lay into."

She steps back. "There, done." Carelessly, she throws the empty can over a boil-covered shoulder and points to the wall. "What do you think, J-"

_It's shiny_. Jeffrey chases after the tumbling cylinder and snatches it up, gnarled hands lovingly wiping stray spots of paint off of its silver surface. Clutching the thing to his chest, he walks back to her. "What?"

Calli seems somewhat annoyed, but she shrugs it off and gestures to the tagged wall with her tongue. "What do you think?"

He thinks that he doesn't know what to think, but he knows that's not what she wants to hear. Jeffrey turns to the wall and takes it all in: swirls melting into swirls, sliced in places by jagged lines and clean, contained circles. It's _nice, _even with the purple.

"It's…colorful. And…swirly. Nice, too."

"I guess it is." She grins, then snarls to herself. "Darn. I gotta find more spray paint. Damn."

Jeffrey cuddles the empty can close and thinks it over. "I think I know where some is."

His grin is matched with hers.

_I hope I got the Calli character right..._


	3. Chapter 3

_Here's just some drabbles inspired by __**Akikazemoon**__'s fanfic "The New kids in Town." I highly suggest that you go and read that story before you start looking at these little one-shots. For those who already have, read on!_

_I don't own anything but my overactive imagination and a nasty bout of insomnia. Left 4 Dead belongs to Valve, Hunter, Boomer, Smoker, Taunter and Tank belong to __**Akikazemoon**__, Sam belongs to __**Commander of the Rabbids**__, Calli belongs to __**Sorrowsnow**__, and Jeffrey belongs to me._

"Pushover" is what they call the Tank, and Jeffrey thinks it's a very good name for him. Tank pushes things over very well – he throws them around too, bellowing with a rage that seems as much as part of him as a tongue is to Smoker or sobbing is to the Witch. He's much more impatient than the others are when it comes to waiting for Survivors to show up, and his rages are more destructive than theirs, but they still understand why he's doing this and they can sympathize with him. Boomer says that he might not be taking the endless, Survivor-less days well because he doesn't have much to keep him occupied in this dead city; Jeffrey thinks it might be because he's "such a pushover."

"_Raaahhhhhh!"_

They duck; the boxy shape of a car flies overhead, groaning miserably as it sails through the air and crashes to the concrete nearby. There's a splintering noise like a tree truck by lightening, the tinkle of broken glass, and the ominous moan of both the twisted metal and the Horde that's got to be nearby. Tank's footsteps follow soon after; something else breaks as he punches a wall and growls.

A single brick, marked with a thin layer of paint, skids down the sidewalk and stops near Smoker. He picks it up with his tongue, only to have it snatched away by Calli, who's fuming.

"Damnit! You smashed up one of my paintings, you jerk!"

Sam shrugs. "You'll make another, right? Besides," he says, as Calli readies an angry remark, "you really don't want to piss off Tank right now."

Smoker does, it seems, because he walks up to the bellowing, muscular Infected. "Chill out, Tank." He exhales a cloud of smoke and flicks ash off the end of his latest cigarette – Jeffrey can't help but wonder if Smoker smoked before he was Infected. Did their personalities before the Green Flu affect how they turned out?

"At this rate, there'll be nothing to break." Smoker screws the coffin nail – coffin nail, what an odd thing to call it, Jeffrey thinks – into his mouth and stares impassively back at Tank as he snarls at him.

"Well then you're just going to have to _fix_ something for once, won't you?" Tank yells, the spectacle of his tongue flapping around without any visible jaw as he speaks causing Taunter to burst into maniacal laughter. That might be out of fear, though – it's hard to tell with her. "_Damn_, I wish there were some Survivors!"

"_I_ don't. They'd be shooting at us then, and you know how squeamish I get around blood." Boomer grimaces; they all move back a bit, just in case. It's not fun scrubbing puke off of themselves. The bloated Infected gurgles and holds up his pudgy hands. "I'm fine. Don't worry."

"You better be-_hehehehe_!" Taunter snickers and points to her clothing. "I _really_ don't want to wash your crap out of my clothing again."

"It's not crap. It's puke," Boomer says defensively, and she snickers in earnest humor.

Sam rakes a clawed hand on the ground thoughtfully. "Where _are_ the Survivors, anyway? They were close to here when we all found each other."

Hunter grumbles something and Sam growls back at him, standing up and crouching in a threatening position. Alarm bells go off in Jeffrey's head and he shrinks back a bit – this means he could attack. Best to stay out of the way. "Well, we _did_ find each other. Stop whining about it already!"

Tank's grinding his fists into the dirty ground and Jeffrey can smell the bitter stanch of Infected blood, not quite as good as Survivor blood yet enough to set them all on guard. The Infection twists and broils in their guts and red-hot rage bursts up into their mind, blood-frenzy just waiting for an outlet.

"I _still_ don't know why you guys are sticking around here! Smoker, Boomer, Tank, Witch and I were fine before any of _you_ showed up!" Hunter crouches, snarling at Sam, and for a second Jeffrey thinks that he might actually pounce him. If he does, he could be in the way, and that could mean trouble…

He shrinks back next to Smoker, searching his pockets for something to hold. The spray paint can he found a while ago makes its way into his grip and he hugs it like it's a lifeline. _It's shiny it's shiny it's shiny it's shiny it's shiny everything's okay it's shiny it's shiny all right, everything's all right. All right_, goes a little voice in his head, and Jeffrey hopes that it's telling the truth.

Smoker looks down at him for a second; Jeffrey stares back and wonders why Smoker's eyes have irises, while his don't, then goes back to warily watching the two hooded figures. They're almost at each others' throats as the tall Infected moves aside, making space for Jeffrey to skitter behind him. Grateful, the weaker Infected does just that.

Calli, watching this silent exchange as well as the louder one next to it, speaks up. "Guys, quit it. You're scaring Jeff."

All eyes are on _him_ now, instead of Sam and Hunter; Jeffrey feels something like heat rush up his neck and across his face. Squinting, he manages to glimpse the tip of his nose – it's red, like Calli decided to spray paint all over him when he wasn't looking. Blushing. Grimacing, he tries to make himself small as he eyes the dark patch where Hunter's eyes should be, under the hood. The shadowed area looks angry. "Erm…"

"_Damnit!"_ Tank interrupts the tense silence and throws another wild punch, flattening a trashcan in his rage. "This is so – _grrrraaaahhhhh!_"

He's angry, and if he keeps being this angry they'll have hell to pay. Tank could bring the Horde here to cause trouble even if he doesn't accidentally-on-purpose injure them in his blind frenzy. Jeffrey straightens a bit and manages to squeak out a plea.

"Don't…don't be such a pushover, please."

They're _looking_ at him again, except this time it's out of confusion than concern or anger. Even Tank has stopped growling, perplexed out of his rage.

Taunter asks the question they all must have been thinking. "What?"

"Well…it's just that…he's already thrown one thing, and I don't want him to push anything _else_ over…"

And they're laughing, the tension in the small alley dissolving almost instantly into various giggles and snickering. Taunter is cackling with manic glee; Smoker and Boomer are leaning against each other, giggling and reminding Jeffrey of one of those boxes he found the other day, the kind with the shiny circle things inside. It had had a picture of a tall man and a fat man on it. Sam, Hunter, and Calli are in hysterics as Tank slams a meaty fist into the ground, howling in laughter instead of anger.

"_Pushover_ doesn't mean someone who pushes stuff over, Jeffie," Calli manages to choke out between bouts of chuckling. She claps paint-covered hands on her paint-covered knees and guffaws, almost at eye level with him. "It's someone who agrees with people all the time, even if they don't really _want_ to agree, you know?"

"Um…" He scratches his head and asks, "then what do you call someone who pushes things over?"

In reply, he gets more laughter, and this time he can't help but join in.

_Once again, I hope I got the characters right. By the way, if anyone can figure out which comedy duo I referenced towards the end, you get a cookie and I'll write a one-shot about anything you want. ^^_


	4. Chapter 4

_Here's just some drabbles inspired by __**Akikazemoon**__'s fanfic "The New kids in Town." I highly suggest that you go and read that story before you start looking at these little one-shots. For those who already have, read on!_

_I don't own anything but my overactive imagination and a nasty bout of insomnia. Left 4 Dead belongs to Valve, Hunter, Boomer, Smoker, Taunter and Tank belong to __**Akikazemoon**__, Sam belongs to __**Commander of the Rabbids**__, Calli belongs to __**Sorrowsnow**__, Valery belongs to __**Foxstar-Nikiu**__, Claire belongs to __**CozblueX**__, Mike belongs to __**Breaking Ground**__, __and Jeffrey belongs to me._

_Nobody managed to answer my last question correctly: the comedy duo I referenced was Abbot and Costello, so no personalized one-shots and cookies for now. :/ I'll have another challenge for this chapter, though, so don't give up!_

It's _raining_ again.

Jeffrey wouldn't mind it so much if it was cold out, but when the water starts dropping out of the clouds and plunking down on the objects below with that steady rhythm, the heat doesn't let up; if anything, it seems to get more intense, more suffocating. Even the sensation of being soaked to the bone – something that he remembers as being a slightly unpleasant relief from the heat – does nothing.

Being hot and wet is more unpleasant than being hot and dry, so they're all curled up in the safe house, uncomfortably close to each other in the confined space and trying to ignore the smell of wet Infected that's getting steadily stronger. None of them have been particularly focused on staying clean and tidy; their clothing and bodies are unwashed and stained with dried mud, blood, Boomer puke and gunpowder. Before, it hadn't bothered them – now that they're so near each other, they're beginning to wish that it had.

"Jeez Taunter, don't you ever _clean_ that hoodie?" Hunter grumbles, clapping a hand over his sensitive nose and ignoring the hypocrisy of his comment. "You stink like a Survivor. A _live _Survivor."

Sam and Valery snicker at this, and Claire cuts into the angry exchange with a loud hoot of laughter that almost beats one of Taunter's. She's up on the ceiling, adhered to the tiled surface and out of the way of any retaliatory blows. Her green eyes crinkle in something like mirth, or else irritation – without the irises or pupils, it's hard to tell.

Taunter doesn't laugh at this – instead, she snarls and waves a dirty hand in his direction. "Yeah, because _you_ should talk. Was that hoodie black to begin with?"

Smoker shrinks out of the way of Taunter's meaningless movement, irritably holding a pack of cigarettes that he's not allowed to light; it smells bad enough in here without clouds of cigarette smoke. Even without the added help of the nicotine, he's still puffing out green-black smoke. "Guys, stop it. Let's just…I don't know, take a nap or something. It should stop raining soon."

"A nap sounds pretty good to me." Calli leans back against the wall and closes her eyes, a lock of brown hair obscuring half her face. Absentmindedly she brushes it aside with her tongue and sighs, already half-asleep. Boomer seems to agree with her; he plunks his rounded form down near her and closes his eyes, gurgling quietly.

They all fall silent for a short while, and Jeffrey entertains himself by staring out the window at the puddles that are growing steadily bigger as time goes on. A flash of lightening lights up the sky – a roll of thunder follows soon after and Mike playfully (but carefully) jabs at Boomer with an elbow. As the Infected opens one bleached-looking eye, he grins.

"The sky's gurgling louder than you are. How 'bout that?"

"Hnh." Boomer gurgles, face creasing in confusion. As another loud bang rumbles overhead, he stands up and awkwardly shoves through the throng of Infected inside the building, muttering apologies as he bumps into each person in turn. Finally he gets to the small window; Jeffrey moves aside so he can look out. "Why does it do that anyway? That boom noise, whenever it rains."

"Sometimes it doesn't have to rain." Sam cuts in, then scratches at his head with a clawed hand. "Like two nights ago. Those lights…"

"Lightening," Valery volunteers, and Sam nods.

"Yeah, lightening, and then the booming thing. It wasn't even that cloudy, either." He toys with the shredded cloth of his camouflage sweatshirt and tries to act casual – or at least, that's how it seems to Jeffrey and the others. "It's sorta…freaky."

"What isn't freaky?" says Hunter, and Sam slaps him upside the head.

…_aaaaaand I've been kicked off the computer. :(_

_Okay-dokey: if anyone can tell me how heat lightening works, you get an e-cookie and a one-shot about whoever (and whatever) you want! :D_


	5. Chapter 5

_Here's just some drabbles inspired by __**Akikazemoon**__'s fanfic "The New kids in Town." I highly suggest that you go and read that story before you start looking at these little one-shots. For those who already have, read on!_

_I don't own anything but my overactive imagination and a nasty bout of insomnia. Left 4 Dead belongs to Valve, Hunter, Boomer, Smoker, Taunter and Tank belong to __**Akikazemoon**__, Sam belongs to __**Commander of the Rabbids**__, Calli belongs to __**Sorrowsnow**__, __**Foxstar-Nikiu**__ owns Valery, __**CozblueX**__ owns Claire, __**Breaking Ground**__ owns Mike, __and Jeffrey belongs to me._

_This is for Sorrowsnow, who won my one-shot challenge. Hooray for science!_

_They see the helicopters long before they hear them – fat black dots against the deceptively calm, shockingly blue sky overhead, hanging improbably in the dead air like bees. Their drummer, clutching his sticks like a security blanket, mutters something about how ironic the sky is today, like he's just checked the weather forecast and seen that zombies were expected along with midday showers. His tone is irritable and weary, but oddly inadequate for the circumstances. Just an inconvenience; something to grumble about as the day wore on, that's all. _

_She shrugs and ignores him, though secretly she agrees. You'd never guess that today would be the apocalypse, of __**all**__ days. It had only been a few hours ago, she realizes, that they'd been making their way to a gig – a __**gig**__, since when did those roll around? – and then this. Now they're standing on the roof of a half-burned building and watching their only hope for escape from…she doesn't want to say it, but she figures that she might as well. This isn't a time for political correctness; not anymore._

_Zombies. They're freaking __**zombies**__, and they're the reason why this band isn't performing._

_They're watching the helicopters that'll take them away from the zombies and hopefully to somewhere safe, where they're not going to have to worry about this Green Flu that's swept the globe. Green Flu, Swine Flu, Avian Flu…just another epidemic, except this one's making people stop eating pork and poultry and start eating each other. She chuckles, and the drummer looks at her strangely. She doesn't blame him – there isn't much here to laugh about. Quite the opposite, actually._

_As they wait, the deathly silence is punctuated here and there by the loud crackle-pop of gunfire and the bellowing screams of infected. The wind carries their cries to them, and the small group bunches closer together. She's off to the side, and she can see the lead singer's hand brush against the drummer's. A bitter expression that's half-grin, half-grimace crosses her face, and she hopes that they don't see it. That's not what she wants them to remember of her. _

_Now the sound comes; a choppy, buzzing hum like insects in a blender. Next, the wind, and they back away as the helicopter alights on the rooftop with grace that one would never expect, looking at its metal body and swirling blades. A door opens; a helmeted head pokes out, black lenses like fly eyes watching them and never showing emotion._

"_Any infected?"_

"_No," goes the lead singer, extracting her fingers from the drummer's. "No infected."_

"_No bites? No flu-like symptoms? You're absolutely sure." the helicopter pilot is doubtful, and it's no big surprise. Who knows how many other people tried sneaking onto evac choppers with hidden bites? She can't help it, she's got to say it. _

"_Actually…" __**Stop looking at me**__, she thinks, but her comrades don't answer her silent plea. They're staring at her, eyes wide and disbelieving. The disbelief turns to horror and resignation as she rolls up her sleeve to reveal the two crimson crescents of a bite. "I am. Got bit about twenty minutes ago."_

_It's the guitarist that speaks up now, voice weak. "When…?"_

"_That bastard at the parking lot. He got me, but I didn't want you all to worry…I'm sorry, guys." Blinking back tears that sting like the salt water they are, she rolls the sleeve back down, covering the mark that's as good as a death warrant now. An undeath warrant. _

_The helicopter pilot seems to understand and sympathize, because his voice carries a note of apology. "You can't go. The others can, but-"_

"_Berry – look," the drummer interjects, and he claps a hand on her shoulder. "You've gotta…I don't know…" He swallows noisily, and she's glad to see that she's not the only one threatening tears. The whole band is – they've been through so much, and now this is it. They're disbanding. _

"…_write on things, okay? We'll find you when all this shit is over. They're gonna have a cure – they'll have to have a cure, and…" His voice cracks. "Damnit, I just wish we could've…"_

_Then he turns, and she can only watch as the rest of her friends clamber into the helicopter. The door slides shut, and with the faint crackle of radio communication they lift up. As soon as she can stand up straight without risk of being blown off the roof, she waves goodbye. She wishes they could've too._

Ice-blue eyes snap open and Calli's awake, looking around wildly and half-expecting another of those metal monstrosities to descend upon her like a mechanical angel. None come, and she isn't surprised; just bewildered and a little disturbed at what's come to her in her sleep. Mentally she reaches for the images, reclining on her paint-soaked mattress and feeling the meaning of the dream slipping away, melting in her grasp like the strawberry ice cream they'd found – sweetness that drips away and becomes a shapeless, meaningless puddle on the ground.

Strawberry. _"Berry."_

She's not going to get any sleep at this rate. Calli stands up, wincing when the old mattress groans, rusted springs returning to their original state. In the darkness, it seems like the scream of some unknown animal, neither Infected nor Survivor. After the creak, there's silence; Hunter rolls over on a mattress near hers and mutters something about Taunter. The blackmail material should cheer her up, but it doesn't.

A muffled cough catches her attention; she's not the only one awake on this dark night. Eyes narrowing in the pitch-blackness, Calli picks her way around the soft breathing of her friends – well, she _guesses _they're her friends by now. They're more interesting than Common Infected, anyway – towards the source of the wheezing.

A half-dead streetlight illuminates Smoker as he tries unsuccessfully to clear his Infection-filled, tar-filled lungs one more time. He's lounging near the entrance of the safe house, sitting on the odd concrete ramp in front of it and holding the red glow of a cigarette butt in one clawed hand. He looks up, flicks ash aside. "Hey."

"Hey," Calli says quietly. She wonders how he can sit there and look so _calm_, so not bothered by anything in this world he finds himself in, along with the rest of them. Does he have strange dreams like the kind she just had? Is that why he's awake now, smoking a cigarette when it's so late, so dark out?

Calli looks at him, ice-blue meeting muddy-brown ones. "Do you remember anything from…before?"

Smoker shrugs and stares impassively at his cigarette before glancing nonchalantly up at her. His voice is calm and serene. "Before what?"

"You know…" She rotates her wrist as she thinks for the right words, and Smoker raises a boil-covered eyebrow at the gesture. However, he says nothing, does nothing, just puffs at his cigarette and stares.

The words just don't come as easily as they do in the day; she wants them to sound meaningful, important when she talks to Smoker, though she doesn't quite know why. Eventually she gives up and just says what comes to mind. "Before you were infected. Do you remember anything?"

A second of silence. Somewhere far away, a Common Infected screams, and Calli can't help but wonder if it's one of the people she saw in her dream. Are those strange uninfected people Survivors, or did they succumb the same way she did? She hopes they didn't, and the hope confuses her. She hates Survivors; _why_ would she want them to be safe and not on their side?

Then, the answer. "No."

He doesn't know. He _doesn't know_. Calli feels a sudden wave of sadness wash over her like a streak of blue paint on the wall of her mind. Inhaling, she gives the mental can a shake and tosses it aside. He doesn't know how she's feeling…does that make her a freak? Does anyone remember what it was like before the Infection? Sam might, or Valery or Mike…but she doesn't want to talk with them. She wan't to talk with _Smoker,_ and she can't. He doesn't know.

"Oh. Well…I'll leave you alone then. G'night."

"Night." He has no idea of the bubbling pit of emotion he's caused, apparently, because he just takes another puff of his cigarette and stares straight ahead. Calli looks; there's an overturned car. Nothing important, really – that somehow hurts even more. He doesn't know, and he thinks she's less interesting than a car.

Dejected, she walks away, weaves around the snoring, sighing figures that are still asleep – asleep without strange dreams they don't understand and can't talk about. Damn Smoker – and slumps back down on her mattress. Calli lies there, trying to pick through the melted dream-mush in her brain, only getting sticky and sad when she finds nothing. The soft tinkle of metal on metal alerts her after a time.

Jeffrey. He's awake too, judging by the way he's jingling like a ring of keys. Calli squints into the velvety darkness and extends a hand. She jumps a bit when it brushes against greasy, straw-like hair. "Jeffrey? What-?"

"Are you okay?" His voice seems very small in the deafening silence. A slight weight settles down next to her on the mattress. "You sound sad."

Spot on, Calli thinks, and moves a bit so he can sit next to her. She coughs carefully and tries to keep any unexpected quaver from making its way into her next words. "How can you tell?"

"The way you breathe. You sound like you're hurt." Jeffrey rests his head against her side, and Calli can't help but think that he's so _short_, like one of those miniature pencils he keeps in the box in the corner. She brushes the thought aside and smiles, enjoying the feeling of another living thing close to her. How long has it been since that's happened to her?

They stay like that for what seems like hours, Calli wrapping an arm around Sniffer's slight body, Jeffrey hugging the painter. Calli finally decides to answer Jeffrey's question.

"I'll be fine. Just a bad dream, that's all."

_Eh, I hope I did well. I tried to keep this one-shot from being too fluffy or depressing. I hope I did it justice. :P_


	6. Chapter 6

_Here's just some drabbles inspired by __**Akikazemoon**__'s fanfic "The New kids in Town." I highly suggest that you go and read that story before you start looking at these little one-shots. For those who already have, read on!_

_I don't own anything but my overactive imagination and a nasty bout of insomnia. Left 4 Dead belongs to Valve, Hunter, Boomer, Smoker, Taunter and Tank belong to __**Akikazemoon**__, Sam belongs to __**Commander of the Rabbids**__, Calli belongs to __**Sorrowsnow**__, __**Foxstar-Nikiu**__ owns Valery, __**CozblueX**__ owns Claire, __**Breaking Ground**__ owns Mike, __and Jeffrey belongs to me._

_I've just got to say that it's hard including so many characters in each drabble (I have no idea how Akikazemoon does it), so if your character doesn't turn up I'll include them in the next one. Anyway, here's a one-shot focusing on the "Mike" character. I hope I got him right…_

He runs.

He doesn't know where he's running _to_ – his thoughts aren't going as fast as his feet, and the only things he's focusing on are the obstacles in his path, the whistling of wind past his ears. The breeze works hot, humid fingers through his hair and sends the locks streaming behind him like the tail of a comet, but he doesn't notice.

The only sound he's really paying attention to is the steady _thump-thump-thump-thump-thump_ of his feet against the ground. It's a good sound, matching the wild beating of his heart as he keeps moving, going forward, _running_.

It's like the entire world is frozen in place around him – all that exists is boiled down to this moment, to the blur of color _wooshing_ past, the slap of his shoes against the pavement. This is all that matters, what he's doing now, and he can't imagine anything else but this. Mike's run forever, it seems, and he'll keep on running until he drops. This is what he does.

He runs.


End file.
